


A New Wager

by RavenZaiyo



Series: Z's Witcher Oneshots [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: 5 bets Jaskier lost and one he didn't, 5+1 Things, Butt Plugs, Comedy, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, M/M, Now a series, One of the bets is entirely focused around a threesome between geralt jaskier and countess de stael, Temporary Character Death, The Moment they learned they were not straight, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism, does this count as a slow burn still?, jaskier is shit at betting, lots of profanity, pegging implied, starts out lighthearted but later chapters are going to eviscerate you, two bros chilling in a hot tub 6 ft apart bc corona
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:54:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23961085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenZaiyo/pseuds/RavenZaiyo
Summary: Another tavern, another town.A friendly wager is made, to see who can seduce a woman first: The rugged, feral wolf, or the comparatively mild and loud bard.When all else fails, all they have is the other's company, and lots and lots of alcohol. But is there something else? Something they'd never thought to consider before?NOW WITH MORE CHAPTERS!New Summary: 5 Bets Jaskier Lost and One He Didn't!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt/Jaskier/Countess, Jaskier | Dandelion/Countess de Stael
Series: Z's Witcher Oneshots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818043
Comments: 17
Kudos: 62





	1. Introductory Wager: Draw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrettyDemonBoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyDemonBoy/gifts).



> I've never written this pairing before so plz be gentle. Hope it's funny, and thanks to PrettyDemonBoy for encouraging this, it's his fault go read his stories. They're better than this. Longer too.

The hum of drunkards exuded from the door of the tavern. Freshly washed and miraculously uninjured, Jaskier and Geralt paused just outside.

"Geralt." Jaskier tried.

"Hm?"

"I can't help but notice you bed a fuckton of women."

"Hmm."

"Care to compete?"

Geralt let out a strange noise, like a scoff. He tossed a coin at Jaskier. 

"I assume that's a wager?"

"Hm." He grunted, heading into the tavern.

Jaskier pocketed the coin and hurried in as well, making his entrance grand.

_**Two hours later** _

"I swear, my luck has never been this bad." Jaskier pouted, swirling his ale around in his cup. He rubbed his cheek, where a red handprint still remained.

"Hm." Geralt grunted. The ale someone had thrown on him was drying, at least.

This was Jaskier's fourth pint, and he was feeling froggy. Maybe groggy. He didn’t know at this point; he was spectacularly not-sober. There was a better word for that. He _knew_ words, usually. This must be why he was in such shit luck tonight. Geralt’s brooding silence must have rubbed off on him. Did he forget how to talk?

Geralt had drunken twice that, easily. Jaskier mused that Witchers were either all alcoholics or they were just really pricey drunks. Considering, though, Witchers could drink those crazy, nasty brews they made, he figured regular alcohol would be like water.

There was a slight laxness in Geralt's face, though. He must be feeling a bit sauced, finally.

Jaskier stared at Geralt’s face, the set of his shoulders. Not for the first time, he saw the way the hearth set shadows on him, as if begging him to write an epic just about his goddamn eyebrows, or something. He had such an interesting silhouette, but was such a boring conversationalist. 

Jaskier, however, was always out to try. On the rare occasion Geralt _did_ speak, it was in a deep, dark burr that set the hair on his arms on edge. Jaskier used to wish for a voice like that. Would have given his entire left ass for that. The gods, be there gods at all, _wasted_ a sexy voice like that on a man who didn’t know how to use it except to growl and grunt like he was trying to hawk something from the back of his throat.

And, since the goal of the night was failed so horrifically, Jaskier was stricken by an idea, a thought. Drunk ideas usually got him into trouble, but both men were in their cups enough that if he truly pissed Geralt off, he’d be more likely to just growl at him and ignore him for the rest of the night. 

It was already kind of like that on a normal night, honestly. 

"So, Geralt, you've been alive a Lot Longer than me." Jaskier started.

"Hm."

"D'ya ever get... Tired of women?"

Long pause. Jaskier stared at him as he finished off his flagon, merciless eye contact with those molten amber eyes. Jaskier is promising himself that if the witcher's response is monosyllabic, he will _break that flagon over his head_.

Finally... "Hm." Jaskier went to grab the cup when-- "Never thought about it."

 _Oh, fucking finally, some conversation._ "Me either, really." He rambled. "Definitely not."

"Hm."

 _Goddammit_.

The seconds ticked by. The tavern was clearing out. Jaskier waved to the barkeep for another round, but Geralt grabbed his wrist and pulled it back down. "You've had enough."

Jaskier gulped at the pressure of his large, calloused, hot hand clamping on his arm, damn near dwarfing his wrist. A confusing rush of arousal sent a shock through his body that was simultaneously like being shoved into a fire and being doused with ice water. He felt toasty but he was shaking.

Oh, fuck. He was _flustered_. For the first time in a long while.

Geralt, the oblivious asshole, seemed none the wiser.

Or did he? He still hadn’t released his wrist. Jaskier was practically vibrating like the world's most jittery anklebiter, and Geralt was staring at their hands like he's studying a particularly perplexing paper. Like he'd been asked to decipher his own handwriting.

"Don't think too hard." Jaskier tried to joke, but Geralt's grip tightened and he whimpered as the pressure became just a bit too much. All at once, Geralt released him as if he'd been burned.

"If you've never thought about it... Why would you bother asking?" Geralt asked, just drunk enough to forget that Jaskier _frequently_ talked out of his ass.

Jaskier, meanwhile, only managed to stammer in a way that was both incomprehensible and too telling. Geralt got up, Jaskier hesitated a bit too long in following him, not sure what to do.

Geralt moved stiffly, which could mean many things, but Jaskier was curious-- 

When Geralt turned to leave, it was there. A slightly bigger bulge than usual in his pants.

 _This could be a new game_ , he realized, _a new wager_.

Jaskier blinked stupidly at the door before taking off after his, as he chose to word it starting now, Riding Partner.


	2. First Wager: The Crying Witcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is appalled and stubborn.  
> Geralt is annoyed and stubborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After much deliberation, I've decided to revisit this fic bc I need the serotonin and I've had writers block for months now. 
> 
> Totally aiming to make at least one person cry, so if you survive this chapter, just know you won't survive them all. I'll be updating the tags AND THE WARNINGS so please keep an eye on that!
> 
> IMPORTANT CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of death and suicide.

"Geralt, darling. I know you're incredibly emotionally constipated, but _you truly wound me_."

"Hmm."

Jaskier bit his cheek to hold in the urge to throttle this beautiful mountain of a beefcake. Solely because he knew as a fact it was a fight he would not win. "Compelling sentiment, as always. But to say I can't evoke feelings!"

"So far your music has roused very little emotion from me other than annoyance." Geralt said, and Jaskier deluded himself to think there was a hint of smile in his voice. It was the only saving grace Geralt retained, even if it was only imagined.

"But to say it's outside my capability is too much!"

The argument had been going all day. Roach was just as thoroughly put out as either man. Geralt felt that as soon as they broke camp, she might sneak off and not return willingly, just on the promise of peace.

Geralt could empathize too well.

"Your goal is to move me to tears." Geralt deadpanned. "I can't remember the last time I cried. Not over a lover or friend, and never a bard or song."

"Ah, but _I_ \--" Jaskier flourished, "--am extremely stubborn."

"If I _could_ cry, I would sooner sew my eyes shut than cry over your music."

"Wow. And you say _I'm_ dramatic. Also, I wouldn't want you to sew up your pretty eyes. So let's settle on a _real_ wager, shall we?"

"Hmm."

"If I can write a song that moves you to tears… what would you forfeit?"

"My dignity would go first." Geralt retorted.

"How about an apology?" Jaskier said. "An actual, legitimate apology for insulting my voice."

"Until that point, I'll continue to say exactly what I think of it." Geralt agreed.

Jaskier sighed happily. "Not only will I be the first bard to move a Witcher to weep, but I'll hear the first ever apology from the mouth of the White Wolf!"

Geralt rolled his eyes.

* * *

Jaskier continued to move in and out of Geralt's circle. Sometime after the Song Wager, a strange contract to purge a ghost in a local lighthouse had left Geralt stumped. Jaskier and Geralt were stranded inside the tower that was, by all accounts, haunted.

The sea's foam was a curtain, the rain and waves a deafening din that felt like the ground itself sought to upheave. The red sky battled for dominance over the shine of the tower's light.

And, of course, from the outside, it was a silent, cloudless night.

Jaskier had sat in the tower, looking out at the beach, and replaying the stories the villagers had said. The lighthouse's keeper and his bride-to-be had both died. The lady had died at sea in a storm, and he had leapt to his death the next day.

Geralt eventually uncovered the lady's vengeful spirit, and laid her to rest without battle, merely by burying the man's remains with hers.

The lighthouse, dormant for months, now shone unattended, but ever-burning. As Geralt and Jaskier left, Jaskier swore he saw a young couple sitting atop the lighthouse's tower, looking out over a crimson sunset.

The following week, Jaskier debuted a new song, excitement burning his bones. A song from the perspective of the lighthouse, watching the people it loved die, and then remaining, empty, to fulfill its purpose, even in solitude.

For such a sad song, Jaskier hadn't expected the crowd at the small, uncouth tavern to laugh at the climax of the song, when the man threw himself from the tower. He managed to finish the song, even knowing it was lost in translation somewhere. He'd have to work on it.

They retreated to the one room they'd managed to secure. Geralt was in the bath already. Jaskier, downtrodden after that reaction, plopped down in the chair at the window and began cleaning and caring for his lute. In silence.

Geralt shifted in the water but did not get out. He sighed, and then, just loud enough for Jaskier to hear, he said, "It wasn't that bad. Need a better crowd."

Jaskier held his breath, a weird feeling in his stomach. "Was that a compliment? Don't tell me it brought you to tears!"

"Hmm."

Jaskier turned to look at Geralt's back. His shoulders were relaxed, his hair dripping over the edge of the tub, the patchwork scar tissue snaking across his skin an interesting tactile tapestry Jaskier might have caught himself yearning to touch.

The man was a map of battles he'd undertaken, and he'd yet to be overtaken, himself. Jaskier's fingertips itched from the imagined feeling of those ridges, the proof of a man's dedication to not dying-- but never truly living either.

Jaskier felt things. In excess, some might say. But Geralt didn't seem to let himself. Was it the age? Did he grow out of feelings, exhausted by the march of time, jaded by repeated failures? Or did he simply not know the release of expressing oneself? Was it something in the cocktail of fuckery that made a man a Witcher that had robbed him of his emotions, perhaps to make him harder to rile or panic in battle?

What might Geralt have been, as a normal man? Would he have cried? Would he laugh easier?

Jaskier shook his head a bit. For sure, if Geralt were not a Witcher, Jaskier would never have met him. He'd be years dead, likely, of old age. As fun as it was to imagine what color eyes and hair the man might have had as a normal man, he was right here. And in spite of the ugliness Geralt had experienced to get to this moment, Jaskier felt happier than ever that their paths had crossed and kept crossing.

Jaskier had felt the feeling that stirred his stomach into knots, many times before. But something about this felt frightening. It was because Jaskier had never felt this way about a man-- and this one was mystery incarnate. His feelings were buried in grunts and sighs.

And Jaskier still had so much left to unravel of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate my job but i hate being home even more :D  
> coming up with the premise for the rest of this fic is the only thing really keeping me going rn, I hope it translates well!


	3. Second Wager: Drawn to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is appalled and stubborn.  
> Geralt is annoyed and stubborn.
> 
> Now with nudity!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No sex in this chapter, but there will be skippable smut in the next chapter. The nudity is in the context of drawing a nude model.

"You mean to tell me you've been like this the whole time?" Jaskier floundered.

Geralt crumpled up the map he'd just drawn by hand, and Jaskier cried out, whole body flinching. He tried to intercept the ball of paper on its way to the bin.

The Witcher then grappled for another piece of paper, scratched off something dried onto it, and set to work fleshing out yet another draft of a map.

"Geralt. Geralt, how?"

Geralt's brow cinched tightly, and he looked at Jaskier as one might look at a very rambunctious and disruptive pet. "How what?"

"How did you learn to--"

"Cartography. Lay of the land changes over time." Geralt huffed. "Shut up for a minute and I'll be done."

 _None of that was an answer!_ Jaskier agonized and promptly _did not shut up._

"Can you draw other things?"

Geralt shrugged, hoping it would be enough to keep Jaskier quiet.

Hope is a vain thing. "Could you draw me?"

The charcoal was being held a bit too tightly, crumbling a bit and dusting the paper with misplaced black. "Plenty of practice drawing monsters, sure." Geralt bit off.

Jaskier flailed a bit like he did when he was happy for no apparent reason. Geralt felt a tension headache forming and forced himself to unclench his jaw as Jaskier leaned _way_ too close to where Geralt could hear the jingle of his necklaces inside his fucking head and--

Geralt threw his charcoal and gripped the table hard.

"Jaskier." He managed, taking a steadying breath.

Jaskier _didn't_ move. "Yes, my friend?"

"Could you go fuck someone?"

"Ah." Jaskier was smiling, Geralt could hear it. Jaskier was fucking with him on purpose. "I'm afraid my prospects are dwindled."

" _Then why don't you go outside and play hide and go fuck yourself?_ " Geralt seethed.

Jaskier cocked his head and leaned back, out of Geralt's space. "Does anyone else know you can do this?"

"If I tell you, will you fuck off?"

"Maybe."

Geralt growled. "We can all draw decent maps."

"We?"

"Witchers."

"Do you have any more sketches?"

“No.”

“Where do you put your maps, then?”

“I’m not telling you to shut up again.”

“Oh, good, that’s irritating.” Jaskier huffed a sigh of relief as Geralt sat there momentarily stunned. “You should winter with me this year! This level of skill, you could _teach_!”

Geralt inhaled slowly over the course of an entire minute. He carefully stood up and turned to Jaskier. He stepped closer to him, and the fear registered on Jaskier’s face when Geralt pushed him to the wall-- and then there was the absolute _stink_ of arousal.

Geralt got close enough that Jaskier could see every pore in his face. Very quietly, very firmly, Geralt growled, “No.” And then pushed off from him, sitting back down before remembering his charcoal was still on the ground across the room.

Jaskier straightened himself up as best he could, but realized quickly there was nothing _straight_ about how absolutely fucked he was. He continued to watch Geralt with wide eyes, barely breathing, before finally ducking out. Geralt finally let out his breath and then went to retrieve his charcoal.

Jaskier did what he usually did when Geralt made it clear he wasn't concerned with what he was doing so long as he was far away: He went shopping.

He braced himself against the inn and shimmied his boot off, grabbing something out of it before jamming his foot back in and walking it off. He whistled as he walked towards the stalls.

Jaskier spent a fair amount of time haggling, which did precisely nothing for the price of the goods he sought. In fact, the pouch of emergency coin from his boot would be depleted now. Geralt’s (lack of) charm must be rubbing off on him-- not that Jaskier wanted to dwell on the idea of Geralt _rubbing off_ anything!

No matter.

So Jaskier was sure Geralt wouldn't be leaving that room for a good minute. Not just to finish his task, but to avoid Jaskier. Sometimes it was fun to poke at him, see where the line really was and then grind his ass on it.

Geralt wasn’t the only one to get aggravated when they traveled together. It was purely playful, and turnabout was fair in any case, right? At the end of the day, Geralt still ended up letting him scrub his scalp and groom the scruffier areas of his beard he had trouble messing with. What was a little stress relief? Geralt was no better!

He hid the things he bought with the intent to bring them back out when Geralt was less pissed, some of it in his doublet, some of it in his crotch area. All those times he smuggled bread in his pants paid off, if you asked him. But of course, no one ever did ask. He told them so anyway, to make up for this injustice. The barkeep was not amused, since Jaskier had no coin left over for drinks.

He jostled the newly acquired items around in his clothes uncomfortably as he tried to figure out how to play his lute without looking like he had a potato shoved into his codpiece-- though perhaps that was an idea for the original wager! One look at a sizable bulge would surely sway--

Geralt had emerged from the inn earlier than expected, hoping to drink in peace before Jaskier returned from wherever he’d gone. As he barged into the tavern, however, he made eye contact with Jaskier, made a noise Jaskier had yet to hear before that was decidedly _not_ sexy, and promptly turned on his heel and walked back out.

Jaskier, who had been grabbing suspiciously at his bulging crotch in the middle of the tavern, lit up like a candle and ran after Geralt with all the glee of a particularly naive puppy.

The barkeep considered boarding up for the night.

Later that night, after Geralt was fresh from the bath, still soft from the steam and the beard oils Jaskier had gifted him a month ago (which, by that he means he snuck it into his bag after labeling it so it didn’t get misused, it ended up back in Jaskier’s hands and he was told Geralt would not pack his shit. Jaskier had to explain the concept of gift giving. It had been awkward), Jaskier had prodded Geralt back awake after he passed out on contact with the bed, fishing in his pants with the other hand.

“Jaskier. No.”

Jaskier blinked at him owlishly. “Do I have to explain why you deserve nice things again?”

“I doubt you’re fishing for something I’d consider a nice thing.”

“Don’t worry, it’s wrapped.”

Geralt’s face pinched. “I… No.”

Jaskier pulled the package of art supplies out of his crotch area, relieved that nothing had gotten ruined. The bag wasn’t spelled against sweat or anything, so he’d been worried. He passed the bag off to Geralt, who dodged it and looked at it on the bed as one would look at an eviscerated rodent-- assuming one was not Geralt of Rivia, who would, had that been the case, not reacted at all. He would have probably been grateful, like the wild cretin he apparently was.

“Go on, open it up while I get the rest of it!”

“What is _wrong_ with you.” Geralt’s eyes glowed up at him, consternation and irritation returning in that endearing and frustrating way.

Jaskier ripped the leatherbound sketchbook off his chest, and it took skin and a couple hairs, making him yelp like a rabbit in a trap. Geralt _flinched_ at the noise and stared at the book as it joined the bag of charcoals and pastels. Once again, his eyes darted back up.

Jaskier, pants loosened and lower on his hips than usual, shirt open, hair and face a mess, licked his lips and gestured back at the pile of things that reeked of Jaskier in… the worst way?

Geralt put his face in his hands. He looked up at Jaskier one more time, hoping things would suddenly make sense. Jaskier seemed to get bored with being stared at, so sat down at the foot of the bed and opened the bag himself, strewing the contents across Geralt’s lap.

Geralt picked up a pastel. His nostrils flared before he sheepishly grappled for the bag and put everything up. "Let it air out by the window." He said, handing it back to him.

Jaskier blinked at him again. Geralt stared back. Jaskier opened his mouth, closed it. Finally, “Are you still upset about earlier?”

“Put it by the window to air out and shut up or you’ll sleep in the windowsill using it as a pillow.”

Jaskier shifted his seat, shaking the already ramshackle bedframe. “Does that mean we can share the bed if I do?”

Geralt closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Yes. Don’t make it weird like last time, though.”

Jaskier ignored that bit, hopping up to fulfill his end of the bargain.

Moments later, with Jaskier on the edge of the bed, facing toward Geralt, who had just moved his hair up onto the pillow so it wouldn’t make his neck sweat, breathed directly onto that sensitive nape, and when Geralt stiffened for a second, Jaskier felt his own face split into a grin.

Maybe it was the only way he could really affect Geralt, for now.

For now.

* * *

Geralt had actually stopped chewing to consider their breakfast conversation.

Jaskier hurried to fill the silence. “If you win the bet, I’ll stop asking you to winter with me. If I win, I get to winter with you this year!”

“You want me to…” Geralt swallowed the bite. “You want me to do _what_?”

“Keep up. I’m fairly certain you understood me the first time.”

“I’m not drawing you naked, Jaskier.”

“Geralt, I’ll have you know not only is it common to do figure studies on naked bodies, as it teaches accurate form and anatomical proportions--”

“Maybe it was the phrasing.” The barkeep butted in, handing Geralt a pint. “It’s on me.”

Jaskier looked at the barkeep, baffled.

Geralt gestured to the three other people in the tavern who now studiously acted like they hadn’t been eavesdropping, belatedly picking their jaws up from where they’d fallen.

“Has no one else heard the phrase ‘draw me like a Novigrad whore’ before?”

The barkeep snickered. “You’re misusing the phrase, boy.”

“I’m fairly certain I’m not!” Jaskier argued.

Geralt emptied the pint and channeled the energy of one who wished to be far away.

Jaskier’s ears were red, his eyes bugging out of his head. “I assure you, if I wanted to dress like a whore, I could just go through your mother’s trunk.”

 _What did I miss?_ Geralt sighed. “If I agree to the bet, will you stop insulting a man who’s done nothing?”

“He’s insulting my mind, Geralt!”

“I do that all the time.” Geralt reminded him, getting up and sliding a coin to the man, who for his part managed to look amused by the whole situation.

“Aye,” the bartender chuckled, “but I don’t look nearly as impressive as you do, I’m sure.”

“I _told_ you I didn’t ask him for that reason!” Jaskier’s voice sounded higher than usual.

Geralt looked between the barkeep and Jaskier, rolled his eyes, and turned to leave. All subsequent attempts to get a response from him would be met with the normal grunts or growls. Geralt had exhausted his capacity for bullshit, and they hadn’t even left town yet.

* * *

“Please stay clothed.” Geralt growled.

“It was part of the wager, I want to see you shade my definition!” Jaskier smirked.

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose, smearing charcoal with his thumb. He didn’t really care about that. He was secretly hoping, on some level, that Jaskier would get stuck in his trousers and fall into the fire.

 _No, not really._ Mostly because he hadn't lit it yet. He sighed, urging his headache to fuck off, since Jaskier certainly wasn’t going to.

“Isn’t it a little dark to do this now? We can wait until morning!” Jaskier said. “I’ve been told it looks quite fetching in the morning. When it's warm... Less shrinkage...” The fact that Jaskier was eager to watch Geralt watching him, as if to discern if Geralt liked what he saw did not register to Geralt. Which was for the best, probably.

“Hmm.” Geralt didn’t know how to respond to that last part. “My eyes work in the dark.” He finally reminded him.

“Oh, yes. That.” Jaskier sounded disappointed.

Geralt settled down, and began sketching, eyes fixed on the line of trees in a direction completely different from where Jaskier stood in what he _thought_ was a flattering pose.

“Wait, what are you doing?”

“Warming up.”

“Hah. Well, I’m not. It’s a bit cold out tonight.”

“You were willing to wait for dawn, you can wait for five minutes.”

Jaskier groaned in aggravation. Geralt’s lips twitched into a smile.

The bet was simple: If Geralt could capture Jaskier nearly as well as he assumed he could, Jaskier won. Jaskier knew Geralt didn’t half-ass anything, so he didn’t really have to worry about Geralt fudging on purpose.

But there was an issue. One neither of them really took into account. Aside from the fact Geralt had never drawn a regular human from reference before, just monsters and maps and scenery because that’s what he was _good_ at and none of it required all of this bullshit.

The bullshit was the problem, yes. The cast of lingering sunset made shadows in places that made it easier to look, but also put a sheen to his skin. And what Geralt had rolled his eyes at-- the idea of Jaskier having _definition_ to his body!-- turned out to have some truth.

Geralt stared a lot longer than he thought he would, charcoal motionless in his fingers, mouth going dry. When he finally looked down at the pad, he began thinking too hard about it. It took all his will to draw away, thinking this much. He wasn’t used to drawing things that moved, as morbid as it was. A dead monster didn’t breathe, and when Geralt looked back at Jaskier, it was at the way he never stayed quite still, though he showed a huge degree of effort.

He was movement, he was light, he was breath.

Geralt needed this over with so he could go find a rabbit to kill for dinner. That would help him. He was just hungry or something.

Geralt still didn’t fudge it, it was just hard to look at Jaskier and capture what he saw. Humans were not complicated at all until you tried to fucking draw one. Geralt discovered an intense hatred for hands and feet. And the muscle of his calf mocked him.

Geralt was now frustrated as fuck about multiple things.

When he finished, he had to resist the urge to throw the whole sketchbook into the fire, mostly because he hadn’t lit it yet. “I have bad news for both of us.” Geralt grumbled, brandishing the page and trying not to crumble it.

“Show it to me!” Jaskier skipped toward Geralt, suddenly less upset about the cold.

“You lost the bet.” Geralt growled as Jaskier took the paper from him.

“Surely it’s not that ba--” Jaskier stopped, mouth still agape. “Oh.”

Geralt tried to take it back, but Jaskier danced backward. The fact that he was naked was the only thing keeping Geralt from wrestling him for it. “Please don’t keep it.”

“Wasn’t part of the wager.” Jaskier sang. “Pity you didn’t sign it.”

“Wasn’t part of the wager. Put some damn clothes on.” Geralt retorted.

Jaskier looked up from the page to see Geralt stalking off into the forest. His smile gentled, and he held the page a bit more tenderly.

Yes, it was terrible. But at least Jaskier had found proof that Geralt wasn’t perfect at everything. And if _he_ was the sole thing that Geralt couldn’t do right, in some way it made Jaskier feel… special.

This was one bet he didn’t feel horrible for losing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took me so long, but it was a fun premise and I had fun making them be mean to each other. This is my therapy.
> 
> I'll try to get the next one quickly.


	4. Third Wager: Anyone You Can Do...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Countess de Stael is interested in helping Jaskier with his Geralt-related fantasies. But how will they get him involved?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I know I just posted the last chapter an hour ago but i was inspired??? Sorry if it's shit tho
> 
> WARNING! Please note that I had to add some tags for the sexual content of this chapter. I also removed the No Archive Warnings Apply but that's for other reasons that I'll explore in a future chapter.  
> As for the sexual content, it's a threesome between Jaskier, Geralt, and the Countess. Most fanfictions I read cast her as an obstacle to Geraskier, but I like the idea that she's complicit and wants to help them stop being idiots.
> 
> [She's basically lady gaga in this video.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pi7gwX7rjOw)

Jaskier had dreams about watching Geralt fuck Yennefer.

Wow, no, maybe he needed to back up a bit.

Ever since Jaskier had almost died, almost lost Geralt, and then watched him very eagerly romp with the crazed sorceress who saved him, Jaskier had been having more and more strange and intrusive thoughts about Geralt using his dick. And also, the aforementioned dreams.

It was to a point Jaskier was becoming worried that he might be going mad. He'd never been this infatuated before, never this single-minded. But, to be fair, he'd never pursued anyone for this long, either.

Sure, he'd perhaps wondered how it would feel to do the sex with Geralt well before that little incident, but he had never played the long game like this. He was coming to the conclusion that he was never going to get to see Geralt be taken apart unless he really dug deep.

It was in the arms of the Countess de Stael that the idea first came to him. Broaching it before had led to an extended bout of separation, even though she tried to say it wasn't about that.

She'd asked if it were true about Witcher stamina. Jaskier assumed she meant their amazing endurance in battle and said yes, absolutely. From what he'd heard, of course. Geralt didn't allow him to watch.

This small misunderstanding was a drop in the bucket. The rest was Jaskier trying very hard to ignore his fixation on fine asses and measuring them up to Geralt's.

But all was forgiven now! Jaskier needed reprieve from the awkward sex dreams featuring his most steadfast friend. Especially the one where--

"Jaskier."

"Yes, lovely?"

"You should ask Geralt of Rivia to join us."

Jaskier startled like he'd been caught in the act of something juicy. "Ah, but you say that as if he's here."

The Countess pointed over Jaskier's shoulder, a smug smirk on her face.

Jaskier swallowed hard, face flushed. He turned and saw-- "Oh, you're just cruel."

"Sure, so he's not here. But if he _was_ , perhaps we could all come to an agreement. You want to see him unhinged, I want to know how virile Witchers really are, and from what I've heard, they rarely reject a good tumble."

Jaskier bit his cheek. "I've been a horrible, horrible influence on you."

She tried and failed to hold in a snort at that. "I feel _comfortable_ , Jaskier. When we're alone I don't have to pretend to be proper." Her smirk turned devilish. "And when propriety is only a suggestion, one can make way for depravity. Now let's see how long you can hold a tune while I hold your finest instrument in my throat."

All at once, Jaskier remembered why he loved this woman.

* * *

Asking Geralt to sex his on-again-off-again lover with him was no easy task.

"Jaskier, we need to talk." Geralt said.

"Oh, I thought I'd never see the day." Jaskier beamed.

"You keep trying to gear up to something. Just fucking ask. It's disorienting when you just abruptly smell like you need to rut out of nowhere. What do you want."

 _Rut?_ Caught off guard, Jaskier didn't know how to proceed, and so he came off much more bluntly than he normally would have. Much to Geralt's relief.

Jaskier didn't even pay attention to what he said, preoccupied by the idea Geralt could _smell_ arousal-- was it bad? Is that why Geralt made a weird face whenever Jaskier flirted with barmaids?

"So what you're saying is you want to prove your bedroom prowess against me, because she's curious about… hmm." Geralt shook his head. "One condition."

"You'll do it?" Jaskier's heart leapt straight into his dick.

"One. Condition." Geralt reinforced, voice sounding like a threat. A sexy, sexy threat.

"What is it?" Jaskier managed.

"If I can satisfy her more than you, you have to write a song about being incompatible with women and play it at every inn next season."

"That's cruel. It's as if you don't want me to bed anyone at all!"

"It would also mean I save you from less angry husbands." Geralt responded. “I would appreciate not being run out of the few towns that don’t spit in my food.”

"And if I beat you?" Jaskier asked.

Geralt's eyes glinted. "You won't."

* * *

Jaskier loved some healthy competition. He truly did. But being told he couldn't satisfy a lover he knew inside and out nearly as well as a stranger was a blow to his pride.

The Countess, predictably, was thrilled at the news.

"When will he be by, then?"

"Just into spring. I assume he hibernates during the winter. He hasn't disagreed, just says he goes away and only Witchers are allowed."

"Oh, boo." She rolled her eyes. "So we have a few weeks. Did you learn anything… _compelling_ in Oxenfurt this winter?" She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Jaskier spent that week telling the Countess of his secret fantasies concerning Geralt. She set to work figuring out how she could best fulfill them. A cunning woman, ahead of her time, Jaskier was always taken aback by her frankness and unexpected strategies.

In another body, she would have made an amazing general, and Jaskier told her often. She would always retort, "I don't need another body. I'm not the only one partial to this one, am I?"

If Jaskier ever, say, became a spy and needed help planning or collecting his information, he knew who his first pick of partners would be: Geralt, of course, but also his Countess.

* * *

It was raining when Geralt showed up, and so the Countess set him up with a bath. Jaskier had been in the bathing room, checking that the water was the temperature Geralt preferred-- hot enough to melt human flesh, more or less-- when he and de Stael came in. Geralt closed the door behind him, made eye contact with Jaskier, and then pulled the Countess a bit closer to him.

His voice was low but Jaskier could still hear. He swallowed his stomach down from his throat as Geralt ground out, “what should I call you? Not fond of titles or surnames in bed.”

She hitched a brow at him and remarked, “I imagine that would be uncomfortable. How about the name I go by when Jaskier and I sneak out?”

Jaskier perked up. There was no such name.

The pause resumed. “That would be…?”

Jaskier could hear the Countess’s smile. “Call me Julia.”

Jaskier bit his cheek hard enough to draw blood. _Oh, you bitch._

Geralt hummed. “Julia.” He stepped closer, looming over her. She stood on tiptoes and kissed his jaw. He turned into the kiss, claiming her mouth, encouraged when she met every aggression with her own. His eyes darted over to Jaskier in challenge. Jaskier’s knees threatened to give at the hunger there alone.

“Mm. Yes. I’d like to hear you purr it later on. Bath first, I’m afraid. I’ll just have Jaskier warm me up for you. From the stories I’ve heard, I feel it will be necessary.” It was a clear cue for Jaskier to follow her out of the room, but Jaskier hesitated just a minute.

On his way past Geralt, his wrist was grabbed. “Jaskier… before this goes any further, I need to know you’re sure about this.”

 _Oh, you have no idea._ “Yes, yes. You know me, I never back down from a challenge.”

Geralt looked him over, clearly assessing him before turning to the bath, releasing his wrist. “Maybe you should learn to.” He said, unbuckling his armor.

Jaskier hesitated another moment. Geralt looked over his shoulder. “Jaskier?”

“Do you need help?” He asked.

Geralt was about to remind him that he could make do, he always had. But then he took in how shaken Jaskier seemed to be. Like when Geralt came back from a rough fight. It had been a long winter, he considered. Perhaps this was his way of assessing Geralt’s readiness, or some way to ground himself.

For some reason he just couldn’t put his finger on, he couldn’t say no. “Hm.” Geralt nodded, almost imperceptibly. Jaskier sighed in relief and came back into the room. “Thought you were going to _warm_ _her up_.” Geralt teased as Jaskier’s deft fingers made quick work of the rest of the buckles, peeling the leather away.

“Don’t underestimate her. She’ll have enough warmth tonight.”

“So you’re concerned I won’t?” The shirt came off and Jaskier’s mouth went dry, his fingers itching to touch.

“Was that a joke?” He asked a bit belatedly.

“That doublet you’re wearing is.” Geralt tossed his soaked shirt next to the discarded leathers before working on the boots.

Jaskier hissed a laugh. “You’re impossible.” Geralt was bent over, struggling with the boots, and Jaskier felt his heart in his tongue.

“You’re nervous.” Geralt said, suddenly serious.

“Not for the reasons you think.” Jaskier murmured. “Not scared of losing.”

“Scared this will change things?” Geralt asked, getting out of his pants. Jaskier hadn’t known there was a way to do that sexily-- he should be taking notes but that ass was distracting him. Geralt hadn’t worn underwear today.

“Huh. Uh-yeah. Yeah.” Jaskier managed to catch the question by the ass-end and figure it out.

Geralt had already clambered into the tub. Jaskier busied himself grabbing the soaps and oils he’d picked out already.

“If it’s any consolation, I doubt I’ll see you any differently than I already do.” Geralt said.

 _Me either, and that’s the problem._ Jaskier shook his head. “I should get to… Julia.” He felt his cheeks get hot at the reminder that the Countess had more or less appropriated his birth name just to make Jaskier squirm. He was exceedingly lucky Geralt hadn’t learned his name yet. Though with Geralt’s proclivity to ignoring anything that came from his mouth, he needn’t have worried much.

Geralt watched Jaskier leave, close the door behind him, and then sat there and thought of what he could possibly do to make Jaskier feel better about this. Without backing out of the bet, of course, that would be an insult to both of them and Julia to boot.

* * *

‘Julia’ was pulling a gaudy chair toward the bed, struggling. She was also buck naked, and when Jaskier stepped around to see what exactly she was doing, he caught a suspicious glimmer in a suspicious place.

“Are you wearing jewelry on your ass?”

“It’s a jeweled plug. Help me with this chair.” She said, not looking up. “Maybe I’ll let you see his face when he takes it out of me.”

“Now, if you recall, Devils don’t exist according to Geralt. But he hasn’t really met you yet. So watch out tonight. If he doesn’t use the silver on you, I will!”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” She rolled her eyes. “To the left more. I want you to get a good view when I’m riding him.”

“Okay. Can you just… what are you planning?” Jaskier asked.

“Sit down and I’ll explain.” She invited.

“Sure but-- what are you--”

‘Julia’ had sat on the bed and was now working the plug in and out of her hole while she explained, which did nothing because Jaskier was now, again, distracted.

“Is the angle good? Can you see everything?” She moaned into the bed.

“I can see.” Jaskier said tightly. “Are you trying to sabotage me?”

“Witchers have unnatural stamina. You do not. During your refractory, you can sit there and enjoy the show. It allows me to tick off some more of your fantasies for you. You just have to imagine you’re me!”

“Is that why you used my name?”

“He would have looked at me oddly if I’d gone by Julian.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do. But you make a delightful face when you’re bothered, love. Now, I know I’m a bit too delicate to pass for your body, but you do have that amazing imagination. Just don’t have more fun than me, and we’re even.”

* * *

To get fully immersed in the character of Julia, the Countess pulled Jaskier onto the bed and began to clamber on top of him, kissing and biting until the door opened silently. She took Jaskier entirely into her throat and groaned around him; he’d looked up at the door and saw those eyes and let out a helpless noise. Julia had pulled back, looked over at their guest with a devious smirk.

And then invited him to sit down and watch until his turn.

Julia rolled them to let Jaskier have at her, urging him on with legs tangling behind his back. Arching off the bed, biting his shoulder, leaving smears of what was left of her red lip paint all over his collarbones. Being as possessive as possible, because when she let her head loll off the bed, looking at the witcher upside down, she could see his focus on Jaskier’s throat.

She was giving him a reason to get territorial. If she established her dominance in this way, she knew he’d be ferocious with her when it was his turn. Just conjecture, sure, but she was going to get the ride of her life if it fucking killed her.

Turns out, it just might. After she’d had her first good tumble of the night, she kissed Jaskier tenderly and patted him on the ass, sending him to tag Geralt in. Once again, she grinned wickedly as she saw Geralt pointedly not look at the welts, smears, and love bruises on Jaskier’s shoulders and clavicles.

As Jaskier looked on, breath absent and heartbeat a reckless constant, Julia tried to get on top but was quickly denied that. Geralt of Rivia hungered, and was not willing to be rode. He was going to break this goddamn bed, given half a chance. Warmed up as she was, still neither Jaskier nor Julia were fully prepared for Geralt’s fierceness.

Julia’s hunch had been correct. This was a fight for dominance. One she was happy to lose, lest she see if his teeth were sharp. Though, she thought, that was an idea too. Halfway into their dance against each other’s bodies, Julia bared her neck to him, and he snarled into it, and she let herself get lost in his fire, let her voice rise, edged further on by the growl against her throat, the slight catch of teeth against tender flesh.

And poor Jaskier, watching helplessly, without the torture of being seen. On the bright side, he was perfectly able to go again soon. At some point he’d begun stroking himself, leaning his head on his hand, brushing inconspicuously against one of the bites on his neck as he watched Geralt hold himself back from mauling her.

Jaskier’s fingers roughened on the bruises as Julia’s voice rose, heralding an earth-shattering climax, and he had to stop touching himself or else he was going to not be ready for the next round.

Before Geralt could pull himself off the bed, Julia was motioning for him to wait with one had while motioning for Jaskier with the other.

“I can’t announce a winner just yet.” She said, voice too sweet. “The best way to know which one of you is best is… Well… It’s not polite to say.” She hesitated. “But I prepared myself, knowing it would come to this. I was… excited for this part.”

“What are you talking about?” Geralt asked, still painfully hard.

“I want both of you at the same time.” She said.

“And how do you propose that?” Jaskier asked.

“Oh, shut up, you know how.” She pushed Jaskier down and got on top of him. “I’ll have you inside my cunt, and Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“The plug is the same color as your eyes, isn’t it? Won’t you be a darling and remove it for me?”

Geralt waffled for a moment before watching Jaskier’s face for a sign this wasn’t going too far. His face set into its stubborn expression, and he growled for a moment before leaning in to speak against Julia’s neck, looking down her body at Jaskier. “Is there some oil, or a salve?”

“On the side table, thank you.”

Geralt crawled across the rather large bed to fetch the oil, and the Countess winked at Jaskier. He looked a mess, but not entirely from nerves. Just _mostly_ from nerves.

She leaned in, nuzzling to Jaskier’s chest, while also poking her ass out so that Geralt could get to the plug better.

“I’ll have to stretch you out more.” He warned her as he took the plug out.

“Please do.” She said, and then took turns letting Jaskier watch Geralt’s face as he worked and leaning up so she could let him see how good it felt. “Never would have imagined you were this gentle. Not after you fucked me that hard.” She moaned, drooling against Jaskier’s chest.

“Hm.” Geralt responded, helpfully. He smirked, making eye contact with Jaskier momentarily before leaning in and nipping Julia playfully on the asscheek. She squirmed, though whether she was avoiding or chasing the sensation wasn’t immediately clear. “Follow my lead and then Jaskier can join.”

“Oh, fuck yes.” She eased herself into a better position, stroking Jaskier’s cock and grinding up against it a bit as Geralt oiled himself up even more.

“I’ll go slow.” He promised, and began to push in, and Jaskier was mesmerized, caught between both of their faces. Geralt looked like he was concentrating, there was sweat on his brow, and at some point he must have bit his tongue because Jaskier could see the tint of blood.

Jaskier was barely aware of his own body, so enraptured by the scene and the imagined scenario where it was his own hole being opened up so painstakingly. And if Julia’s face and noises were any indication, there was no pain, only mind blowing pleasure.

Fully seated inside, Julia took Jaskier’s hand and put it on her stomach, pressing where the head of Geralt’s cock must be. Geralt’s face was buried against Julia’s neck again, his breath labored.

“It’s time, Jaskier, please.” Julia whimpered.

Jaskier reached around for her hole, finding her wet and wanting, and also finding Geralt’s body, his hand brushing on thigh and lingering a moment too long. He hurriedly moved his cock toward her cunt, letting her sink down on it, impaling herself just that much more on Geralt in the process. Jaskier leaned up, and Julia made herself small against his chest, leaving Jaskier and Geralt almost face to face in this moment.

Geralt’s hips moved first, and the tightness inside Julia made Jaskier pant out and move too. Julia was a wreck, exhausting herself to the point all she could muster was little crackling cries that hardly registered over the sound of Geralt and Jaskier as they took her apart-- and each other.

Geralt glanced at Jaskier’s lips and had a momentary crisis that led to him spilling with a feral noise. Jaskier, of course, didn’t last any longer.

Julia was not done, however. “Geralt, please tell me you have one more in you?”

“Did I win?” Geralt managed, looking half-lost.

“If you can lay back and let me ride you, yes.” She promised.

“I can… do that.” Geralt managed, disentangling himself to lay down. Jaskier stared dumbly after Geralt, fully aware that he was so totally wrecked. He didn’t even have the energy to go to the chair. Close enough to almost touch, he watched as Julia got on top of him, sinking down onto his cock with a cry. Geralt clutched her hips and choked the name that put Jaskier’s heart through hell.

She leaned down, and then they were kissing, and she was riding him very impressively, and Jaskier could only watch, feeling himself sink deeper into an envy he didn’t frequently feel. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, he wasn’t sure yet, Julia didn’t last much longer.

Perhaps the worst part, the part that _felt_ the worst was that Geralt had looked over at him after it was over, and Jaskier could see some sort of guilt there.

As the loser, Jaskier excused himself to grab something to clean everyone up with.

Geralt looked at the Countess. She looked at him. Alone as they were for a moment, he closed his eyes and tried to think of anything but how horrible he felt right now.

“He’ll be fine.” She said, putting a hand on Geralt’s thigh.

“Hm.” Geralt hoped he wasn’t that easy to read. But if anyone knew how Jaskier would feel about weird bedroom antics, his lover would. “You’re sure?”

“I think we all had fun.”

Geralt looked at her, saw wicked intent in her eyes, and then thought back to any number of moments he hadn’t meant to let happen. And how he’d wanted to--

“If I can put off my betrothal much longer, we should do this again.” The Countess remarked. “Perhaps several more times. That was the best sex I’ve had in a long time.” She smirked. “After all, what bard doesn’t perform better with an audience.”

Geralt huffed a laugh.

“And you.” She touched his chest. “You exceeded all my expectations.”

“Glad to be of service?” Geralt’s brow cinched.

“I’m going to sleep _so_ soundly tonight.” She flopped backward onto the bed. “As to that end, I had my servants take your things to a separate room. I figure you could use a nap after that ordeal.”

Geralt nodded, not looking at her. “I can understand why he talks about you.” He said at last.

“Oh, does he?”

“Frequently. I try to tune it out.”

She laughed. “Did I meet _your_ expectations?”

He finally did look. There was a special kind of pain in his eyes. Something she didn’t quite know how to unravel. “Yeah.” He said. “I’ll go to my room now, if that’s okay.”

“Of course. As you please.” She said.

And so when Jaskier returned to find the Countess alone on the bed and deep in thought, he assumed the worst. “Did he leave?”

“Oh! No, but I had a thought.” She smiled up at him. “I’m going to order a harness and a special quartz wand. Next time you visit, I’m going to decimate you like he did me.”

“Ah--”

“It’s okay if you call his name. I’ll certainly understand.” She winked at him and gave him a quick peck. “Now please clean me up so I can sleep.”

After some aftercare, Jaskier went to cuddle up with her, but she tapped his hand before he could even put it around her. “He’s in the commons, and I doubt he wants to be alone tonight, much as he made it seem.”

* * *

Geralt still wasn’t asleep. He was wrapped with a towel, though, because his clothes were cleaned and stowed away and he didn’t feel like putting them on covered in sweat again as he was. He was debating washing himself in the basin when he got lost in the window, replaying his head and not any closer to understanding it.

He felt heavy, but he wasn’t tired. He felt sated but incomplete. And whereas he usually treasured the silence, he was overburdened by it now.

And he couldn’t get the smell of Jaskier, or the image of his face, of his body out of his head. He couldn’t stop thinking about those marks at the crux of Jaskier’s neck, and how they made him feel. He wanted to touch them, feel how firm Jaskier felt under his fingers. Even after biting his tongue just to distract himself-- he'd devoured Julia's kiss as if he could taste Jaskier if he just tried hard enough. 

He was greedy, that was it. In bed with a beautiful woman who wanted him, and he wanted more. But it was something he’d felt mirrored. This was a house of greed. She’d wanted them both, and Jaskier had reeked of envy, but…

Had he been envious of Geralt’s prowess or of…?

The door opened and Geralt startled. He hadn’t been paying attention, but Jaskier wasn’t a threat anyway. He’d been thinking deeply about him, so the sound of his footsteps hadn’t been too obtrusive, he supposed.

Why was he here?

“She’s had enough tonight, so I’ve been banished until morning.” Jaskier explained. “She told me to keep you company.”

“I’m fine.” Geralt said.

“She left claw marks all over you. One or two were bleeding.”

“Didn’t notice.”

“I know.” Jaskier hummed softly. “Mind if I clean it off of you?”

He should say no. “Sure.”

“I see she set us up with only one bed. Though it is larger and more sturdy than most of our accomodations.” The water dripped off the rag, the noise of it dripping back into the basin a comforting background noise that Geralt latched onto, grounding himself.

“Hm.”

“I can go elsewhere if you’d rather be alone tonight.” Jaskier lied. The other rooms were occupied by the servants. The Countess took good care of her own.

“I’m fine.” Geralt repeated. The water was cold, but it felt good against his skin. He felt like he was steaming. Like a pile of shit.

Jaskier was too quiet. Geralt didn’t know what to do but he decided he didn’t like the quiet.

“How about that song you'll be writing?” He tried, turning around and looking at Jaskier.

There was a warmth that bled into Jaskier, and Geralt felt better seeing it, thinking maybe he put it there.

“You’ll help me with the rhyme scheme for ‘impotent’ won’t you?”

Geralt offered his best attempt at a smile and gestured for the bed. “Roach would be better help. But I’ll try.”


	5. Fourth Wager: Cat Got You're Tongue?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is sick right before winter, Geralt chooses to get him to Oxenfurt and take care of him rather than go home to Kaer Morhen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's symptoms in this fic are muted. No explicit mention of the bad stuff, but we can assume Geralt will deal with the full brunt of it off-screen. Some tenderness before that happens, yes?
> 
> Jaskier has managed to learn the language of Hmms.

There was no getting around it, Jaskier was sick. But it was odd how unconcerned he was about it. It was as if he thought Geralt couldn't tell.

"I can make it to Oxenfurt on my own, Geralt."

"Get on Roach." Geralt said again.

"That's really not necessary."

"At the rate you'll walk, it'll take you a week to get there. I can get you there much quicker. And I doubt you'll be able to break camp alone."

"I'll have you know I am just as capable as you!"

Geralt stared at him.

"Alright, somewhat as capable as you. I'm fine, Geralt, please."

"Get on Roach."

Jaskier sighed and clambered up onto the horse. He obviously knew what he was doing, but his limbs didn't obey him or he was dizzy. Geralt had to steady him.

Being jostled around on the horse was upsetting, but Jaskier had worse feelings at the moment. He didn't want Geralt to sacrifice going to his winter hidey-hole because he had to babysit Jaskier.

Jaskier also knew, however, there wasn't much chance of changing his mind. And for good reason, because Jaskier was truly not going to get better for a good week. It happened like clockwork, every couple years at the changing of the seasons. Usually it didn't happen until he got to Oxenfurt. But there were kids in the last village who had followed him around and been entirely too adorable for him to ignore.

"Children are so toxic, Geralt."

"They were more bearable than you." Geralt joked, keeping good pace with Roach.

"What is better at spreading plagues: rats or human children?"

Geralt didn't answer. For a full five minutes. "Children. We kept the keep free of rats but the children were always getting sick one way or another, spreading it everywhere."

"I thought Witchers were immune to disease?"

"After the Trials, yes. Those of us who didn't die first." He looked at Jaskier.

"And the keep?"

"Sacked." He answered.

Jaskier thought back to everything he'd managed to dig up about Witchers. Everything that wasn't propaganda. It wasn't much. "Will you tell me more?"

Geralt didn't answer. Jaskier waited. But he didn't continue.

* * *

Oxenfurt was loud, as always. Jaskier managed to arrange for Geralt to be permitted to accompany him, mostly because everyone knew how miserable Jaskier was when he was sick and by now there was no hiding it.

As far as everyone else was concerned, Jaskier was a Geralt problem until further notice.

Jaskier swung open his door and stumbled in, flopping onto his bed with a huff. "Geralt, darling, the window please."

"Hm." Geralt didn't argue. It was too cold out to open the window but Geralt was fully intent on making sure Jaskier didn't die of cold. Some fresh air would do him some good, at least until he passed out.

After the window was open and Jaskier moved to sit rather than suffocate against the pillows, Geralt excused himself in search of extra pillows and blankets. And maybe a bath. Would be nice to find someone willing to send a message to Kaer Morhen, too, but that could wait until Jaskier was out cold.

When he returned, laden with thick comforters and fluffy pillows, he shut the door behind him with his foot and turned to see Jaskier sitting with a full grown tabby cat settled firmly on his chest, purring loudly.

Until now.

Geralt met the cat's eyes and didn't move. The cat stopped purring and then instantly bowed up, hissing and spitting. Before Geralt could so much as cast Axii on the cat (hands still filled with pillow), it had sprung off of Jaskier, clawing through his undershirt in the process. It disappeared out the window.

Jaskier lurched and made a pitiful noise, reaching after the cat. Geralt stood there awkwardly, staring after the cat and wondering what to do first.

He tossed the pillows and blankets over Jaskier's head and stalked to the window, closing it with a sigh.

"What was that?" Jaskier asked.

"Cats don't like Witchers."

"Any Witchers?"

"None."

"That doesn't seem right." He huffed. "Horses love you, dogs and farm animals don't seem to hate you…"

Geralt looked at Jaskier. "What kind of animal are you?"

Jaskier shook his head. "I'd tell you to shut up but I don't really want that."

"Hmm." _I guess I'll shut up then._

"That's fair." Jaskier sighed. "Was looking forward to cuddling that cat."

"Hmm." _I can leave._

"It's going to storm tomorrow night. You don't have time to get where you need to go." He bundled himself deeper into the blankets. "I'm sorry."

Geralt didn't respond for a while. Jaskier closed his eyes and willed himself not to cry. He got weepy when he was sick sometimes.

The bed depressed at his feet. Geralt was still looking at the window. "I'm not upset."

"You can stay here. I've had worst guests, everyone will tell you."

"Julia?"

"Mm? Oh, _especially_ her."

Geralt nodded and looked back to the window, where the cat was sitting, staring in like she would like to murder Geralt in his sleep.

Jaskier followed his gaze. "That is rather strange, though. Every cat?"

"Hm." _I'm not repeating myself._

"It's just strange! I know I'm beating a dead horse but… surely there's a cat out there that doesn't react like that to Witchers."

"Jaskier." Geralt inhaled. "You're sick. I don't like wagering with a man who isn't there."

"I'm coherent enough you ass." He pouted. "And I didn’t consider betting until you called it a wager.”

“Hmmm.” _This is why I don’t talk._

“Don’t take that tone with me.” Jaskier shuffled down, burying himself deeper into the covers. “In any case… I wager that there’s a cat out there somewhere.”

“There are _many_ cats, Jaskier.”

“One that won’t hate you.” Jaskier continued. “You deserve to feel how comforting the purring is. So relaxing.”

Geralt shrugged. “What are the stakes, then?”

Jaskier was falling asleep. “The loser… hmm.” Geralt watched Jaskier fight to stay awake, a smile sneaking onto his face. “You decide. Much as I hope to win, I know better by now.”

Geralt chuckled and climbed closer, still over the covers, still mostly clothed. His warmth would serve Jaskier well, and he could keep a better tab on his recovery by being close. Practicality! And nothing more!

Geralt listened as Jaskier’s breathing leveled out, and settled a little closer. He’d get up in a minute, send word to Vesemir not to assume the worst. Get Jaskier some water, maybe get a basin of water to help him clean off after his nap.

But he was thinking now. Jaskier’s hair tickled his nose, and when he tried to snuffle it out, shaking his head just enough that he didn’t jostle him awake, he realized just how much he’d come to understand Jaskier by his body.

He could tell when Jaskier was happy, sad, angry or just horny by scent alone. He could tell by his body language if he was being dramatic or trying to hide something. Jaskier couldn’t lie to Geralt, even if he tried-- which he didn’t really anymore. Geralt knew Jaskier better than he wanted to think about, yet here he was. Thinking about it.

They still hadn’t talked about that night with the Countess, and it had been a long year. But Geralt didn’t think he needed to.

The way he felt _hadn’t_ changed. He just became more aware of it, like pressing into a blade inch by inch. As much as he feared this, a loss of control over himself, over his emotions and attachments, there was a peace in it.

On Jaskier's bedside table, framed, was the horrid sketch Geralt had done.

His breath stirred Jaskier’s hair. Too quietly, Geralt whispered, “Goodnight, Julian.” and followed him into sleep.

Just for a spell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is going to be the last unless i have to split it into halves. It's going to be the heaviest, and probably the most eviscerating thing I've written in years. I will be adding some very scary tags for it. I will however add a happy ending. There will just be a lot of angst in before we get there. Please take care. Hope you've enjoyed so far!
> 
> If we go by how quickly i got that one down, maybe i'll have it by the end of the week.


	6. Fifth Wager: It Can't Rain All The Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Heavy themes, major character death, detailed grief.
> 
> The warning is, in and of itself, a summary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a happy ending to this, but please take care if this gets to be too much. 
> 
> Sorry this took so long, but to be fair it's about 20 pages, and i rewrote All Of It three times. Wish it were better, still.

"You maddening _disaster_ of a man! When you wake up I'm going to…" Jaskier's fingers shook as he continued sewing up Geralt's stomach. He steeled his nerves, but his voice still quaked, "slap and kiss you in equal measure." He finally managed.

Jaskier hadn't thought to ask what the contract was for, or if he'd need to prepare himself for anything. He could only assume something had gone wrong. As to whether his mark was dead, Jaskier was confident Geralt would have killed it, even if it meant not making it back. As he was here, that meant it was over.

Small favors.

Jaskier finished, locating the bottle of Swallow, most of which he'd gotten Geralt to drink before he passed out, and splashing it over the wound.

Jaskier sat there, staring down at Geralt, a sense of dread setting in. He touched Geralt's face, moved his sweat- and blood-caked hair away from his eyes.

And Jaskier cried.

* * *

It became a big fight. In the heat of it all, they both said things they wouldn't be able to piece together later, a maelstrom of frustration expressed in words they would later regret but not quite remember the order of. Exhaustion was a bitch like that.

Jaskier asserted that Geralt needed more time to heal, pressured him to take a break, stay with him or even winter early. Geralt had gotten irritated and said Witchers didn't get breaks.

Jaskier had said bollocks to that, Geralt was more than just a Witcher, and he needed to heal properly. Geralt had rolled his eyes and said that if he was that worried, Geralt would seek a healer.

That wasn't enough. Geralt didn't understand why it wasn't. Jaskier didn't know how to say it.

Silence stretched.

* * *

The crackle of fire was soothing background noise, it almost could have swallowed up those two words, but Geralt was listening. Anxious, though he couldn't say why.

"Promise me." Jaskier had mumbled. He was lying back on his cot, pointedly not looking in Geralt's direction.

"Promise what?" Geralt asked after a long moment watching firelight flicker on a face that should have looked warmer.

"Promise that you'll take care of yourself. That when we're apart I won't…" his voice broke and he couldn't continue. Couldn't imagine, much less verbalize a world where he could lose Geralt.

Geralt sighed. "I would wager you'll die well before me."

"Why? Because I'll age?"

"Hm… no. You'll be more likely to be killed if I'm not there to help you. Think of all the angry townsmen waiting to string you up." There was a pause. "So I'll promise if you promise."

Jaskier did look at him, but only when he was sure his eyes didn't look like they were leaking. "I don't want to be right, with that wager, Geralt. I'd rather you win."

Geralt settled closer to Jaskier's bedroll. Close enough Jaskier could kick him. Brave.

"Hmm…" Jaskier's foot twitched, gently smacking Geralt's lovely ass. Geralt got the point, this was a time for words. "I promise to look after myself."

Jaskier let out a breath. "I promise no one else gets to kill me except you."

"Hm, do I deserve that honor?"

"More than anyone, Geralt." Jaskier replied, before looking up at the sky. "More than anyone."

* * *

It frightened Geralt. The idea that Jaskier would grow old and die. He wanted a peaceful, happy life for him, but the existential dread of watching someone he cared so much for die over the years would be…

It occurred to him this was precisely why Witchers didn't make friends. Sorcerors, elves, and other Witchers had longer shelf lives, but humans were squishy and aged like milk.

Sudden, violent death was an easier pill to swallow. Happened to everyone, especially Witchers.

But when Geralt thought about Jaskier, he couldn't imagine death. He was too big, too important. The world hinged on him. If he were gone, the world would feel empty and bled out.

That didn't make sense.

Geralt realized. Geralt feared.

Geralt looked at Jaskier, who looked more at piece, open. He mapped this moment out, his fingers itching for charcoal. He wanted to capture this, keep it.

One day, he'd be old and alone, and all he'd have is the memories, the pictures, and broken promises.

* * *

Jaskier wintered in Oxenfurt as always, without Geralt. And he composed a song he never intended to sing. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Hopefully never.

Geralt, far away, sat at a table full of his fellow Witchers, staring into space. His stomach turned and his food grew cold.

The cold of the mountain winter accompanied him down that spring. His fear grew each day: the inevitability of death clung to him, stuck in his throat.

And Jaskier had no idea why that was. The silence, the cold. It was like backtracking, and he presumed it wasn't about him; Geralt would tell him if he did something wrong. He never held himself back before, after all.

And then they met Borch.

* * *

Cold magnified feels like fire. A white hot brand that shoots through you like lightning, a full-body flinch that doesn't show.

Losing loved things leaves a mark. An angry, seething burn to the very bone, and it stays smoldering long after the rest of you is numb.

It was strange how clarity could be gained so abruptly.

Geralt stood there, unsure how to process what had happened but knowing he'd fucked up.

It was like being doused in a torrent of water, or being clotheslined by a branch while riding a horse. You're struck dumb for a moment, but then you're processing what happened, what you did.

When it dawns, the realization that there's no way to take it back sends an aftershock through you, followed by numbness as you do damage control.

_Would have lost him eventually. This is better, this is controlled._

But the reality was harder to swallow: what had been jaded numbness once had bloomed into reserved affection… now he was stripped raw. Now he was naked and cold in a world that narrowed to a point as minute as the little whimper he'd heard as Jaskier turned away.

He could give chase.

But he couldn't take it back. He couldn't fix this. He'd done enough damage. He didn't deserve the redemption.

Cold. He wished for the numbness, because he didn't have a word for heartache. There was only cold that withered his throat, white hot behind his eyes.

He did not cry. He didn't remember how.

* * *

Jaskier never thought he’d find himself talking to Yennefer like this. Not in a million years, but especially not now. They were sitting together in a filthy bar, and Jaskier had no idea why. And then they were talking about everything and nothing.

Geralt had claimed his child surprise. Yennefer loved her, the daughter she’d never had. Jaskier was happy for her. Asked if she and Geralt hooked back up, to which she quipped “what of you and the Countess de Stael?”

She knew damn well the Countess was happily married now.

After a night of drinks and conversation that led in circles around a man that neither of them truly knew what to think about, Yennefer went to leave. Jaskier grasped her sleeve.

“Jaskier?”

“I… Can I tell you something?”

“If it’s that you’re drunk, I’m aware, sweetie.”

“Please.”

Yennefer sighed, and when Jaskier got up from his seat he found himself standing in his room at the inn. “You have five minutes.”

He waffled.

“Four minutes.” Yennefer prodded.

“We had a wager once.”

“Many, from what I heard.”

“There’s one I still think about.” Jaskier said and sat down on the bed. “He got fucked up on a contract, came back holding his guts in and I… I blew up at him. We bet on who would die first, I said it would be him..”

“That’s sound logic.” She nodded. “And _knowing_ him, the logic is more than sound.”

“I don’t want to be right, Yen.” He said, and felt his eyes grow wet. “I would do _anything_ to be wrong.” He blinked through the tears. Yennefer sat down next to him, unsure what else to do.

“What are you suggesting?” She asked at last. “Fixing the odds?”

Jaskier smiled, a bit crookedly. “You wanted an excuse to curse me, right?”

She thought about it. “You’ve given me a horrible idea, Jaskier. So yes, I’ll help you.”

In the end, they got matching magical tattoos, meant to sacrifice their own lives for one they love who took a death blow. Yennefer’s would react to Ciri. Jaskier’s to Geralt.

Drunk as he was, Jaskier only remembered bits and pieces of the night, but he remembered what the mark meant. He touched it often, on his side, wrapping around one hip. But over time, he forgot it was there so much as what it meant. Geralt would be safe. Geralt was okay as long as Jaskier breathed. And if he stopped breathing, Geralt would still be safe, still be okay.

And Jaskier would never know a world without Geralt of Rivia in it.

* * *

Jaskier and Geralt made up. Ciri grew up into a lovely young devil. Jaskier mentored a woman named Priscilla, finding a spark in her that reminded him of his Countess, with whom he still to this day regularly exchanged letters.

Over time, he met Lambert and Eskel, and somehow gained their respect. At least, he was half-certain Lambert liked him. He hadn’t killed him yet. Even introduced his friend Aiden and extorted him for a good place to crash.

His cabaret was well-established, and he saw any number of Geralt’s powerful acquaintances over the years. Mostly Triss Merigold, since he was more than happy to help her with anything she’d ask, and she did still live in Novigrad.

Ever since the defeat of the Wild Hunt, he’d grown used to seeing everyone more often than not; it was as if danger had lost its teeth. Or most of them.

Concerning Yennefer, the secret was kept. She and Jaskier might nod in passing, had they crossed paths, and none were the wiser of the deal they’d once made, deep in their cups and woes. Once in a blue moon, perhaps they met up with Geralt. He didn’t visit often, but sometimes it was entertaining for all three of them. Jaskier would flirt with both and watch them leave together. He would think back to that night with the Countess and wish he had the balls to ask Yennefer to arrange something similar. He was worried she’d make him wish she killed him.

Jaskier was by no means young now. He loved these performances, still, though. His own cabaret, live music. The lighthouse song had really taken off, and he saw tears in the audience by the end of it-- a sick part of him took great joy in that. It was so nice; the deepness of Geralt’s voice that he used to envy was starting to come out if he didn’t actively hide it. Sometimes he would tell stories on stage, doing his best imitation of Geralt for comedic effect. His voice had aged like fine wine, and he liked to think his body had, too.

Tonight was not by far his best night. He needed a drink, but he was enjoying the thrill of the stage. It never got old. The smiling faces, the crying faces. The shocked faces?

His hip burned.

Something changed in the air. Dust motes that hadn’t been there, caught in sun rays that were out of place this late at night. Breath that wouldn’t come. Pain that crept and then thundered. Blood that slicked his belly, spilling onto the back of his lute and coloring the backs of his teeth. The taste of copper and realization, acceptance. Love.

Jaskier fell dead during a simple performance. He died smiling.

Leagues away, an assassin counted his coin too soon and felt Geralt’s steel twist through his guts. Geralt felt at his own abdomen, looking for the wound, but there was no pain there.

His hip burned.

* * *

Yennefer brought him a device that held a likeness of Jaskier. It was years old, Geralt felt his heart break anew, looking into the eyes of a man who hadn’t yet heard an apology from Geralt of Rivia, but still loved him enough to sacrifice himself. Yennefer couldn’t look at it, so stood by the door, but she still listened.

“First off, I hope this works properly!” Jaskier said cheerily, only somewhat sober. “For all I know, this might… never be seen, or, fuck maybe next month with how reckless you are. Yen asked me to make this to make sure you don’t hold her accountable for my inevitable death. So don’t do that. If she had refused, I’d go to every mage I could find until I found one willing to do this. Yennefer was the best option for several reasons, the biggest of which is she has least reason to want you dead sooner, so I didn’t have to worry about her intentionally botching it.”

“Depends on the day.” Yennefer said, to the side of young Jaskier. “Get on with it.”

“Right.” He sighed. “So by now you know I’m dead, and you might be relieved, or maybe not even care.” Yennefer made a dismissive noise. Jaskier looked to her and chewed his lip in thought. “Or you might resent me for making this decision. And not telling you about it-- because if I did, you would just break it out from under me, so no, I can’t tell you!”

“You’re rambling.” Yennefer said.

“Yes, well. I just signed away my life, so that’s reason enough to ramble, right? Gimme a break.” He paused. “What do I say, Yen? Do I tell him to do right by you and Ciri, be a good father figure or what? Do I tell him I don’t regret anything I did concerning him? Do I just…”

“Why don’t you make him one more wager?” Yennefer asked. “What do you want from him?”

Jaskier’s face pulled tight for a second, and the silence ticked by. He opened his mouth, but it took a long moment for him to speak, even still. “I’ll bet… that my life will be fuller, knowing how it will end. I’ll live like I always have: without regrets. Not without mistakes, but without regrets.” He smiled.

Geralt looked into the depiction of Jaskier, felt his nails bite his palms, his jaw clench so hard that his teeth creaked. Jaskier looked back, his carefree smile melting into one softer. One that Geralt had seen a million times but only now, so many years late, fully understood it for what it was. “If you’re there, Geralt, it’s because I’ve already won that bet, though. So all I want from you is to do the same. _Live_ , that is. Without regrets.”

A beat. "Yen, do I have time for a song?"

"No."

Just like that, it was over, and the last piece of Jaskier in the world was gone.

* * *

Geralt didn’t know how to process it. He didn’t speak to Yennefer for a long time. He holed up in Kaer Morhen for a period. Being around Ciri helped, when she could make it. His brothers helped, but when Lambert brought home his friend Aiden, Geralt tried not to be outwardly bitter that Lambert had his lover and he didn't.

The irony that he’d found a Cat who didn’t hate him wasn’t lost on him, either. Just continued to bring everything back around, full circle once again.

And he'd been taking a break, like Jaskier had wanted back then. But the wound he was trying to heal wasn't something he could look at, poke or prod. There were no stitches, no scar tissue.

The others did their best but even Eskel, his closest friend and confident, had trouble prying him from his grief. Eskel was still a balm, always supportive and stable, and Geralt leaned on him heavily during the winters when Eskel returned. When Geralt began to open up again, it was Eskel who got him talking.

And the best way to get him talking was to ask about Jaskier. His monosyllabic responses would grow longer, and the floodgates would open. There were stories, but they were spoken with the short crassness that Geralt usually mustered with Eskel. The details were sparse, and Eskel had to pry some of them loose like rubble, but Geralt almost looked--

Well, he almost looked alive again. If Eskel was being honest.

He and Eskel were on the way back to the keep after clearing out a nest of harpies one afternoon when Eskel had asked him about the weird drawing Geralt kept in his room, one that had come in a box of Jaskier’s possessions that Priscilla had insisted he take. After a long moment, he told the story of trying to draw Jaskier for the first time.

“For the _first_ time?” Eskel asked.

“I did a few more studies.” Geralt admitted. “I didn’t tell him.”

“He didn’t notice?”

Geralt shuffled uncomfortably. “He was asleep.” Eventually, Geralt got the hang of it, drawing Jaskier. Didn’t have to look at him, could just sketch it out after the fact. But that part didn’t get voiced, the words were too heavy without help moving them.

Eskel stared at him. “That is…” _Creepy? Sad? Weird?_

“If I show you, will you not finish that thought?”

“Show me. First thing when we get home.” Eskel agreed.

For the first time, someone saw Jaskier through Geralt’s eyes. Saw the way he treasured the light and shadows that touched him, the pieces of him that were a brilliantly shattered mosaic. Saw that he was movement. He was memory. He was breath. He was naturally running saltwater.

Ciri had brought him some watercolors last year, and his work shirts were covered in little splotches of stain. Lambert would give him hell about it, but that was just how he showed his love. When Lambert finally saw some of the images, he went silent, fingers stopping just short of the paper. And when Geralt ran out of paint, Lambert was the one to suggest using coffee.

Geralt still drew landscapes sometimes, but there were figures among the flowers. A tree on a hill, leaves scattered on the ground, and a man sitting with a lute, eyes gleaming in profile. That one was new.

Geralt never could sort his feelings properly. Not in words. Never really in words.

Grief was not new to him, but this feeling was. A stubborn unwillingness to fully take it in. Geralt had always mused that since Jaskier was human, it was simple logic that he'd outlive him if it came down to age. But there was always that little something more to him, something Geralt had built up in his heart that made Jaskier feel permanent. Unkillable, immortal.

In these images he drew or painted, it was that feeling of closeness he emulated. The larger-than-life quality of the man juxtaposed with the simplicity of his heart. Those quiet memories, the nights he almost lost his mind from overthinking his every gesture.

But that was the root of the denial, wasn't it? Geralt hadn't ever had that talk. He'd never broached the topic of his feelings-- to himself, much less to Jaskier!-- and had convinced himself that Jaskier knew how he felt, deep down.

More than anything, he wished he could tell him, or hear him say it. It would change everything and yet nothing at all.

Having forgotten Eskel was there, Geralt sat down and started drawing again. Eskel stared at Geralt's back, obviously concerned. He made an audible excuse to leave. Geralt didn't respond. Eskel left, unsure how to help, and even more unsure how to handle that Geralt might really need help at all.

* * *

It was a winter's evening, and Geralt was spending time with Ciri. He hated court politics just as much as she did. Sometimes a friendly face was necessary to ease some of the lines of tension in her face.

It was also nice to speak of the old days. Ciri missed Jaskier, too. Jaskier had taught Ciri some old tavern songs, mostly to spite Yennefer and Geralt. Lambert had contributed to that end, as well, and so Ciri taught him some back. Young as she was, Jaskier pretended not to have heard them all before. Jaskier had always thought he would be terrible with children, but when he was around Ciri, there was a softness in his face. His smile lines would deepen.

The first time Ciri showed Jaskier her prowess with a sword, doing her drills, he’d eagerly pulled out his little dagger and asked her to show him, knew it would make her feel important. He let her reaffirm what she already knew, teaching him. She’d looked so serious and stern, like a mirror image of Geralt. Geralt insisted that no, she got it from Vesemir, his own father figure. Jaskier remarked that perhaps Geralt was living his own impersonation of Vesemir, then, to pass it on so remarkably to the child.

Geralt had given Ciri that little dagger. She wore it in her court clothes. Now, as they spoke, he saw her palm its hilt in thought.

Ciri introduced him to the Countess de Stael and her lovely husband. A man who looked like Jaskier. We'll, not _looked_ , per se. He _felt_ like Jaskier. His body language, the way his smile could tell a story, the swagger of his steps. The clothes, of course. And… he was wearing the same oils as Jaskier.

Geralt's throat suddenly felt tight. The smell of Jaskier's oils and the Countess herself brought back memories he didn't like to touch. Not out of shame, but because it was too intense.

The Countess smiled warmly at him, and told Ciri they'd already met before. Ciri hitched an eyebrow, and the conversation stayed in the vein of idle court chatter, while Geralt stared at the floor. The Countess had aged a bit, but it was still her. And the man who was not Jaskier was too disorienting to look at.

While Geralt was staring a hole in his shoes, the Countess’s husband and Ciri both wandered off. She must have said something to ward them off. It was only when her hand lit on his crossed arms that he looked up. Her eyes were glassy.

“Darling, you haven’t aged a day.” She said.

Geralt didn’t know what to say. Finally, he muttered, “Mutations.”

“Would you like to dance? For old times’ sake?”

Geralt waffled, but didn’t want to be rude. He felt the sickness of going through a portal, but only in his chest. His breath felt restrained and he couldn’t quite unclench his damn jaw. “Hmm.”

Her smile quirked as she let him lead her onto the floor. “I needed to talk to you. About a mutual friend.”

“Hmm.”

“I have quite a few things in my possession that belonged to him. I can’t look at them.” She looked away briefly. “Well. Some for worse reasons than others.”

“I hope you’re not trying to give me things you… used on each other, _Julia_.”

She laughed, only managing to hide it under a more acceptable noise by sheer willpower. Someone still looked at her funny, and Geralt eyed them until they minded their own business. “No, dear. No… unless you want those. I have plenty of those too, and my husband isn’t nearly as adventurous as Jaskier was…”

“Didn’t need to know that.”

“No one could be as adventurous as Jaskier. You know that just as well as I do.”

Geralt didn’t meet her eyes. “Hmm.”

“Lemme see if I can work that one out, he taught me a bit.” She whispered. “Does that one mean ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ or is it reluctant agreement?”

“Hmm.”

Her smile warmed. “Geralt. Darling. You don’t have to pretend with me. We’re the only two people left in this world who knows what happened that night.”

“Do you know who Yennefer is?”

“Oh, right, the mind reading witch.” She sighed. “So, three people. But _we_ were there.”

“Hm.”

“I’ll drop the subject if you agree to take his things from my house. They’re safer wherever you go to hibernate.”

“We don’t hibernate.”

“I never went by Julia, either, but you already knew that.” There was an edge to her smile now.

The smile spoke words that he didn’t want to hear.

Her voice was quiet. “That night, all those things we did. Do you ever think about it?”

“I try not to.”

“Does it work?”

He didn’t answer.

“Even with all the fun we had, I find myself thinking about Jaskier so much more. It wasn’t that you weren’t great, because you were. But I think the thrill came from knowing…”

Geralt stared at her, trying to work out what she wasn’t saying.

"I'm going to tell you a secret. I asked Jaskier to marry me. I knew the answer, but I still asked. He told me our love was something different. Something priceless, and that marriage would ruin it."

"That was the morning after." Geralt nodded. "I heard him say that."

"But you didn't see he was looking at your back when he said it." She said, and chewed at her cheek to keep her eyes from misting up. "And I knew he wouldn't give up on your adventures, his music… but I needed the closure."

Geralt looked into her eyes with new depth. She smiled. "That night was my way of killing two birds with one stone, so to speak. I got to see firsthand what beat my bid for his heart… and I let him see firsthand what he knew he’d never get.”

They were standing still, now. Geralt wasn’t sure what was going on around him. He swallowed, but his mouth was dry.

“I’d say… that night might be the best gift I ever gave him.” She stepped back from Geralt as the dance ended, patting his face and smirking. “I know it’s a bit late to change the rules to a game long won, but I’d say if anyone won, it was him.” Her smirk turned into a wide smile. “Though the song is still a classic.”

Geralt didn’t know how to respond, and so stayed there until he realized people were dancing around him, giving him a wide berth. He looked for Ciri and made his way back to her, his head not quite spinning, but… that weird portal-sick feeling in his chest persisted.

When Jaskier had worked in intelligence, she and her husband had helped him when they could, never turned him away when it counted. But when she looked at Geralt, he could see it in her eyes that she never really fell out of love with him, marriage be damned. She would, much like Geralt, hold pieces of Jaskier in her heart as long as it still beat. That victory, once upon a time, had been hollow.

The worst thing about this was that he couldn’t explain any of it to Ciri. He could only sit in silence, thinking about something he normally avoided at all costs, and knew that it was too late to talk about it.

* * *

The bottle wasn’t empty yet, but he was well on his way. He had no idea what it was but it smelled fancy and tasted like shit, regret, and misery. When you drink enough that even _Lambert_ tells you to ease up, that’s when you know you’ve fucked up. But Lambert wasn’t around right now. No one was. Geralt was wearing a hood, sitting in the tavern and kissing the neck of a bottle, reveling in regrets that refused to settle.

It was close to that time. The anniversary to when Geralt had been careless, let someone sneak up on him.

It should have been him. The guilt only magnified with time. Resenting Yennefer didn’t make it better. Resenting Jaskier didn’t either. Even when he’d been a prick, all those years before he came back. Even when Geralt of Rivia had broken Jaskier’s heart, he’d still put him first. That wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.

He told himself he was just getting drunk, that’s why this was building, but he knew he wasn’t even slightly sauced yet. It would take until the bottom of this bottle. Maybe another, even. But he pretended that he still had control over at least this.

He didn’t.

He’d be fine in a couple weeks. He had been the last couple years, so he was hoping he’d be back under control by then. He just needed to be drunk enough to pass the hell out. Expensive, but better than staying awake and feeling.

The dreams were a gamble, but if he drank hard enough he might not even remember them.

Like the masochistic fuck he was, apparently, he was in Novigrad, not near the cabaret yet, but he knew he’d wander closer later on. Priscilla would probably slap the shit out of him and try to talk some sense into him, but by then Geralt would reek so heavily of booze she might not risk getting close enough to strike him.

She would be busy tonight. This week, every year, she held a remembrance banquet, where bards inspired by Jaskier would perform his best songs. Geralt didn’t like to attend. People would look at him. Whether he imagined their hatred of him or not-- and with Jaskier’s open love and support of him throughout his career, it very well could be imagined, as no one knew the specifics of why Jaskier died-- Geralt would feel their eyes like ice all over his body, and it made his skin crawl.

Clockwork, here he was, and he could hear them caterwauling in there. Butchering Jaskier’s songs. Geralt leaned against the facade, hood up, eyes down.

He knew every word. He could picture Jaskier working through the fingerwork, biting the tip of his tongue as he retuned the lute. Picture, not remember. Because when it had happened, Geralt hadn’t seen it as something special. It was normal, it was common. It was something he could set his clock by, had he need for a clock.

Last year, he’d been drunk enough to sit quietly, but he wasn’t there yet tonight. He clenched his teeth to keep whatever scathing remark wanted to emerge. It wasn’t the poor kid’s fault he sounded nothing like a dead man. No one sounded like Jaskier. That’s why they celebrated him so. Not because they loved him, not because they _knew_ him.

A song Geralt had heard a million and a half times from a million different bards. He’d been there when it was written, and he’d said the words that encouraged its survival. Its growth.

Geralt grabbed for the door and missed. And then the delicate picking came. There was a backing band for this one. And Geralt held fast to the facade of the cabaret now, a bit unsteady on his feet. He recognized this one, he’d be stupid not to.

This one’s voice was closer. Not spot on, sure, but it wasn’t distracting, and Geralt felt memories wash over him, overcoming him, and then he was thumping his head softly against the wall, swallowing hard.

He groaned in the back of his throat, thinking that maybe he was about to vomit.

He sank down onto his ass, against the wall as the tune turned chipper, preluding the first chorus. Geralt huffed, unsure what was happening to him, grappling himself like that would keep him from shaking apart.

The more the boy sang, the more like him he sounded. As the song went on, Geralt found himself shivering and huddled further and further in on himself. The song had depth now, sung with more voices and more artistry. Did Jaskier sing it like this before he died? Geralt should have visited more.

He should have talked. He should have--

This wasn’t the time for that.

Geralt felt himself sink into the voice, into the words, let them echo inside himself.

_”And the waves crash in around me, and the sand slips out to the sea. And the winds that blow remind me of what has been.”_

“And what can never be.” Geralt finished, and he remembered how Jaskier had tried many different keys. He embarrassed himself a few times, singing it just a hair too low, and the notes fell flat, too low for him to hit loud enough for the crowd to hear.

The harmony and roar of the second chorus broke something in him and in the quiet that followed, he stopped moving. His throat moved but no sound escaped, and his eyes steamed--they were so hot, he couldn’t see. His fingers did not shake as he brushed tears from his cheek and stared at the moisture. It kept flowing.

His breath stabbed at him, and he was confused. The hand that held the bottle flinched at a drop of errant liquid. He looked up at the street lights, blinked it off, and felt an incredulous shock ripple through him, the undercurrent of a bitten off laugh. He was going mad.

He still felt the hysterics building. Little bits and pieces jostled around in his head, tiny snippets of events and conversation. The million mosaics of a man he loved. A man who, somehow, had loved him too, even at his worst.

Geralt began laughing in the midst of the final chorus. It started small, quiet, but quickly deepened into something near mania, and he buried his face in his knees as his shoulders shook until he didn’t know if he was crying or laughing anymore, or even why he had begun laughing at all.

“You just need a better crowd.” He’d said.

* * *

He woke to Yennefer pulling him to his feet. Unsteady and still groggy, she led him through a portal and into a room with a steaming tub. She more or less threw him in, and he let her scold him.

Geralt didn’t know what to do. He’d been avoiding her for years but was drawn to her anyway. It was what always happened, wasn’t it?

What was his connection to her without Jaskier? Jaskier had been a key factor in every stage of their relationship, sometimes much to both of their annoyance. Who would be there to mediate them now? Who would be between them?

He was mostly sobered up when she calmed down.

“Geralt, this has gone on long enough.” She said.

Geralt just looked up at her from the tub as the water got colder.

She sat down, sighing. “I’ve been working on something. For you.”

He still didn’t respond. He could barely muster to blink at her.

“I always put failsafes in my magic. When it's possible. But he didn’t want me to have control over ending the spell on him. So I made him create a failsafe.”

Geralt leaned forward, looking at her with a rapidly darkening scowl.

“He wouldn’t tell me how to do it. So I’ve been trying to figure it out since…” She hesitated. “If it’s all the same to you, I don’t want to complain as to the lengths I've gone to. But I think I might have found it.”

“What will it do?” Geralt asked. “It can’t bring him back.”

“I’m not sure what it will do.” She admitted softly. “But… I felt it was your right to do what you will with the information.”

Geralt sighed, leaning back into the tub, though he still looked too tense. He grunted, a prompt for her to hurry up.

“There must be proof of each bet he’s won.” Yennefer said. “But he told me he lost them all.”

“He didn’t want it to be undone.” Geralt said. “Or he wants proof that I’m living without regret.”

Yennefer scoffed. “You’re a long ways off from that one.”

Geralt got up, water streaming off him. He was still in his clothes. Yennefer handed him clean, dry ones. “What else? Is that it?”

“You must offer proof to where his heart lies.” She said. “He was buried in his homeland, his family demanded it.” Jaskier had said he’d be buried on his family’s estate, but only over his dead body. A joke that now fell flat.

Geralt shook his head, struggling with the sodden pants.

“So not the literal heart, unless he’s put it in a jar somewhere. That wasn’t mentioned in those disgusting journals.”

“What did Jaskier love?” Geralt prompted. “He loved his music.”

“You think it’s here?”

“His lute was buried here in Novigrad. The family couldn’t take that from him.” Geralt said, muffled by soggy shirt.

Yennefer hesitated. “What if that’s not what he meant?”

“Doubt it’s literal.” Geralt was vigorously toweling himself off, now, while also stumbling for the dry clothes.

“I think you’re right about that.” She hummed. “But what if his music isn’t what he meant?”

“Spit it out, Yen.”

“What if it’s just you?” She asked. Geralt paused with his pants half-on and looked at her.

He gestured for her to go on, pants forgotten momentarily. She did not go on.

“It’s funny you think you know him better than I do.”

“It’s funny you can’t remember that I could read minds.” She retorted. “Especially coming from the man who loudly thought of him while we fucked!”

“How would I offer proof to myself?” He asked, as if her barbs had missed entirely, teeth bared and eyes growing wild. “What could I do?”

Yennefer saw the way he was going and snapped at him. “Don’t take this out on me, I’ve done my part for this. Do what you will.” And she was gone in a second.

Geralt continued wrestling with his pants, growling to himself. But for once, things were moving. The horrible, open, empty world felt like there was meaning again. He had a task, he had something he could do-- something he could try.

He was lucky she’d left him in the room he’d rented the night before. His things were there, and he shuffled through his bag looking for something.

He tore several pages from his sketchbook, and waffled for a bit, back and forth to figure out what he needed to provide as proof for the others. He tallied up all the wagers, and slowly began to think that maybe he was just getting his hopes up. Maybe there was no way to provide proof for them all.

But then he began pacing again, heart twisting. What would he sacrifice to do this over again? What gods would he kill to take it back? What torment would he suffer just to change the past?

What would he have said? What would he have done?

He walked as if he knew where he was going. In his head, Jaskier was still a destination. His thoughts unclear and incomprehensible, a tangled weave of self-loathing and denial. Fuck it, he could try multiple times. He headed for the place where Jaskier’s lute was buried.

* * *

There was a gathering here. Of course there was. Geralt waited in the shadows, glaring down at all the tourists at Jaskier’s lute-grave. Just when he thought it was good to go down there, himself, a group of Oxenfurt alumni had a literal goddamn picnic, even going so far as to pour out some wine on the grave.

Geralt’s patience wore thinner and thinner. To distract himself, he began planning what he’d say.

Hours later, and he was still sitting there, watching as group after group sat at the grave. Geralt felt a weight in his stomach settle. This wasn’t where Jaskier’s heart was, it couldn’t be. Jaskier the performer was a face. He loved to perform, but he was so much more than his stage persona. His heart wasn’t something he shared so readily to complete strangers, at least not in his later years.

Geralt still didn’t want to walk away yet. But as he stretched after so long standing still, the rustle of paper in his shirt reminded him. He took out the images, each studies he’d done on Jaskier with pastels or charcoal. They were messy and haphazard, but they felt more real than this grave did.

Where would his heart be?

Geralt went back to his room, paying the innkeeper on his way up, not intending to come out until he figured out what he had to do, where he had to go.

* * *

Turns out he couldn’t sleep.

After laying awake for a good while, he sat up and looked outside. The streetlights bathed the room in a glow, but it was muted by the slick of rain on the glass. Normally, white noise at night made him sleep better, so the din of rain on the roof and window should have kept him out cold.

He stared into the glass made opaque by the glare, and put his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers in front of his lips.

The quiet rumble against his fingers was louder than his whisper. “Did you know you won a bet?”

The empty room didn’t answer.

“In fact, I’d say you won all of them after all.”

Impossibly, his eyes felt hot again, and he braced himself, clenching whatever was supposed to control the urge to cry.

His voice choked, coming out rougher. “Collect on them.”

He waited. But nothing happened.

He threw the blanket off of him and whipped to his feet, in nothing but his smallclothes. He braced his hands on either side of the window and stuck his forehead to the glass. The steam against it from his deep but labored breaths spread.

“You said there was a cat out there who would like me, and there was. Even though she said I won, we all knew better, and she’s even said as much now that it doesn't matter.” He bit his cheek. “You wanted me to draw you, and now you’re almost the only thing I can draw. You’re always there, always on my mind, and I can’t get you out. I don’t _want_ you out. Because if I let you go, you’re gone. And it’s my fault.”

He swallowed a breath and hiccuped, fingers digging into the wall as he continued grinding his face against the glass. “And you said you could make me cry and you did. You have. I…” He took a deeper breath and slowly let it out before finally whispering.

“You tried to rig the bet, but I died with you.”

He leaned away from the glass, scrubbed mercilessly at his eyes, and looked around the room, wildly. Hoping for something, anything. Hoping Yennefer was right.

It was still an empty room.

Geralt sat down on the bed again, this time feeling detached from his body. He lay back down, and for a moment almost convinced himself he felt Jaskier’s breath on his neck.

In the steam on the window, three words stood out, as if someone had drawn their finger through the condensate.

**I am here**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, yes. Please take care, and read something fluffy or funny after this, until i get the final chapter up. I considered leaving this as the ending and having it be a bit open, but no, i need some fluff and i'm sure you do too. this was supposed to be a comedy what is wrong with me

**Author's Note:**

> It took me about an hour to write this????? Is something wrong with me???? WHERE DID THIS COME FROM???????
> 
> Idk how active this fanbase is yet, but if ppl really want more, I can try for more. Just bear in mind I work 50-60hr work weeks rn.


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